


when the kingdom falls

by nenosronhir



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Other, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 08:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20721503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nenosronhir/pseuds/nenosronhir
Summary: there is no bone, no strip of muscle, no drop of blood within your body--or without--that will allow you to abandon your dear, sweet prince to his fate.





	when the kingdom falls

**_Y_**ou are twelve years old when you taste the sting of copper on your tongue for the first time. The source, as you discover with a wince, is the deep gash along the inside of your mouth; your flesh had been rent, caught between your teeth and the bony knuckles of the young lordling who had struck you.

Still in a daze, you begin to pick yourself up off the cobblestones of your uncle’s courtyard, and think to yourself that it isn’t this Guillaume’s fault. He’s young and afraid, as so many are⎼as _ you _ are⎼the Malichor runs rampant through the court, the country, the continent, as far as monsieur de Courcillon’s lessons indicate. The mark on your cheek, while wholly different from the terrifying black taint of the deadly disease, is still something _ unknown_.

He is older than you, though not by much, yet he hasn’t mastered his fear in the way the rest of the court had. He hasn’t yet learned to bow and plaster polite smiles over that fear or pity or distaste, to speak in hushed whispers when you were supposedly out of earshot. Your tongue soon finds that your lip, too, has split. It explores the damage that was done, feels the swelling that matches the dull throbbing through your jaw. Your mother will need to make excuses for your absence at court while the bruise fades, and your stomach drops with dread at the trouble it will cause her.

By now you’ve managed to sit upright, and the world snaps back into focus with alarming clarity. You become aware of screaming⎼no, _ pleading _ is more accurate, punctuated by breathless grunts and the occasional whimper. Your eyes snap upwards, searching frantically for the source (as you realise your altercation has begun to draw a crowd), only for your gaze to fall again on the cobbles not ten feet from where you’d fallen, where a second scuffle has erupted.

Your eyes widen.

“Constantin!” You shout, scrambling finally to your feet, but Constantin d’Orsay doesn’t answer you. He’s even smaller than you are, at this age; sheltered and fragile. His pale complexion, flaxen hair, and expressive green-gold eyes have always left you with the impression of a doll.

There is nothing doll-like about him, now.

Crouched atop your earlier assailant, Constantin’s arms are a frenetic blur. Wild and ineffectual though they might be for the most part, the boy beneath him has been given little recourse under the assault but to endure. His arms are raised up to protect his face, though you think you see a thick smear of blood trailing from his nose.

“Constantin⎼!” Again you call him, and again he ignores you. By now you’ve got your feet beneath you well enough to close the distance between you.

“If you so much as look at⎼!” Constantin warns, his voice cracking with the ferocity of the words that he rips from his throat, but you set a firm hand on his shoulder and he can no longer dismiss your call.

“_Cousin_!” You insist, and your grip is firm on him as you loop your arm through his, tugging him to stand on shaking knees. His enraged expression faulters immediately as he meets your eyes with his, seeing the way your own features have twisted with concern. For more reasons than one.

“I don’t know what came over me, I⎼” He stammers, colour draining from his face as realisation begins to dawn. You can see the way his gaze grows distant, his mind doubtlessly turning to thoughts of his father. You release him gently, though he protests at first, trying to cling to your ruffled doublet. A reassuring squeeze of his shoulder serves to placate him well enough to let you go.

You turn and approach the boy who’s now been laid out. He seems to be recovering his wits much as you had earlier, and despite Constantin’s _ enthusiasm _, his injuries are not severe. You’ve little experience in assessing these matters, but to your eyes it seems his nose might be rather more crooked than it had been when the day began, explaining the thick trail of blood leaking from his nostrils. Otherwise, you think perhaps blows may have clipped his cheek and chin, but they seemed superficial and would likely not even bruise.

Withdrawing a handkerchief from your pocket, you extend it towards him.

“My lord,” you say cautiously, as he flinches away from the motion, “if you would permit me⎼”

“Stay away from me!” There it is again; fear. Bright and obvious in his eyes as much as it is in his voice, and you lower your arm, resigned. You weigh your options. With your white flag rebuffed, much as you would have preferred a peaceable solution _ sooner _ rather than later, given hard feelings like these left to stew, you already know you’re left with only the option to withdraw. You’re keenly aware of the eyes on you⎼and on Constantin, in particular⎼so let it be said that it was not you who departed with hostility.

“As you wish,” you say gently, and you turn to Constantin with all the poise you can muster. It almost fails you when you see the look on his face. He’s afraid, and while you know he isn’t of _ you _, to see it mirrored in his expression nevertheless makes you pause. He must have seen something reflected in your own features (you haven’t mastered the art of a courtly mask yet, either, as much as you would like to think you have) because he all but bounds back to your side, an eager smile swallowing all his doubts.

“Let us away, my dear cousin,” his eyes flick to your lips, and your tongue laps reflexively at the gash within, “it seems we’ve all wounds to lick.” His hand closes around yours as he hurries the pair of you away from the courtyard, away from the prying eyes of the court, and away from the young man they’d left sitting on the cobbles.

* * *

_**Y**_ou run hand in hand through corridors, past startled staff, and down too many flights of stairs to count until all that lights your way down the dark, cramped hallways are candlelit sconces. Constantin takes a sharp turn and drags you with him, throwing open the heavy door that had been nestled around the corner. It startles the singular clerk who had been sifting through the archives, her strangled yelp causing both you and Constantin to break into brittle, nervous laughter.

“Leave us, if you would, good madame,” He declares, the pompous affectation in his voice completely ruined by the way his chest heaves with his effort to catch his breath. He sweeps you behind him and out of the way with the same arm he uses to gesture the clerk out the door.

“Your excellencies⎼” She sputters, and it’s easy to see she’s flustered and confused at the sight of the pair of noble _ children _clearly having been up to some trouble-making given their mutual state of dishevelment, and the small matter of blood on your chin. You offer her your most charming smile, though your lip twinges in protest, from over Constantin’s shoulder.

“We are but playing a game, madame. Tell no one you have seen us, lest you cause us to forfeit the sweets we were promised for winning!”

You watch as her hesitation gives way to resignation; she could no more deny the children of d’Orsay and de Sardet than she could deny their parents. Let those who should have been minding them take responsibility for their mischief; she would not.

“As you say, your excellencies. I wish you the best of luck with your game,” she dips her head politely, collects the ledgers she had been perusing, and sees herself out of the room. You wait until you can no longer hear the shuffle of her footsteps before closing the door, and you let out your breath in a sudden rush; you didn’t realise you’d been holding it in.

Echoing your heavy sigh of relief, Constantin sinks into the chair the clerk had vacated, and he meets your gaze as you turn around and lean weightily against the door. A grin tugs on his lips, eventually lighting up his youthful face as a laugh escapes him, and you feel one of your own bubbling uncontrollably out of your chest. In an instant you’re laughing along uproariously, dispelling the anxious tension that had threatened to grow between you.

Yours ends abruptly with another wince as your teeth catch the gash they had opened in your flesh, and your split lip pulses in the wake of a grin that had pulled it too wide. Your fingers touch gingerly to the sore, flakes of blood that had already dried coming away with a fresh splotch of crimson on your fingertips. In the time it’s taken you to investigate your wound, you’re aware that Constantin has risen from his seat and made his way to you.

“My dear cousin,” he says, his hand extending almost as if to reach for your face, but you turn your head to shy away, briefly mortified at the idea of having your blood on his hands.

“Whatever am I to _ do _ with you?” His hand still hovers between you, and it’s then that you realise his knuckles are reddened and abraised, though thankfully only one had split. The one that had broken the young Guillaume’s nose, no doubt. Your concern softens your affront at his words.

“With _ me_?” You repeat, incredulous nevertheless. Your unsullied hand snatches at his wrist and waves it gently before his eyes, “Constantin, he was near to double the size of you!”

Constantin scoffs dismissively. “My father would have had his head had he dared lay a hand on me.” You can see straight through his feigned indifference as his voice warbles gently at the slightest mention of the Prince d’Orsay; you both know there will be consequences for these events as much as your cousin seems determined to deny it, “And he impugned your honour, I could hardly let it stand!”

“My _ honour_,” you start, but the rest of the words catch in your throat as your eyes meet. His is an intense look for all his youthful features, and you realise, suddenly, you’re treading on precarious ground. He’s waiting, you realise, for something specific, and for once his expressive face gives nothing away. The feeling of teetering on a precipice from which there was no return sends you scrambling back for a common ground between you.

“Oh, Constantin,” you sigh, your affection⎼albeit exasperated in the moment⎼plain in your voice, “whatever am I to do with _ you _?” He searches your gaze, and whatever storm had been brewing behind his greenish gaze subsides. 

“First, we must make a merry plan! Raid the pantries, the closets, the barracks! We must make ready to abscond into the night ahead of my father catching wind, you see.” He dances away from you to gesture theatrically with his words, mischief creeping back into his expression; you can still see the shadows of dread that remain in his eyes. You open your mouth to jokingly suggest you make for Thélème⎼perhaps the father that frequents court, Petrus, you think, can be convinced to smuggle the pair of you from the city⎼but the door rattles behind you and sweeps inward, forcing both you and Constantin to step out of the way before you’re caught by it.

“...Monsieur de Courcillon!” You exclaim, your eyes going wide. Instinctively, almost, your steps have placed you protectively between your professor and Constantin.

“I do hope I misheard you, Excellency.” His voice carries a tired note of inevitability.

“I take full responsibility for this, professor,” the words are spilling from your lips without you missing a beat. Your head lowers as your gaze falls to the floor, but Sir de Courcillon’s hand rises to grip your chin lightly, turning your face that he might examine your injury. You see what might be a flicker of pity in his gaze, and your cheeks warm with shame, your eyes sliding from his.

“Your mother worries for you, my young student. Please, go to her posthaste and relieve that burden on her heart.” De Courcillon’s gaze shifts to Constantin, and you don’t need to be looking at him to know he shrinks beneath it.

“Your father has likewise requested your presence, your excellency.”

“Of course, monsieur.” To his credit, Constantin masters his anxiety and steps past you, though he turns to glance your way once he’s through the door.

“Until tomorrow, dear cousin!”

“Until then,” you say, mustering an encouraging smile that you can only hope reaches your eyes. Your professor gives you a nod of seeming approval and turns to escort Constantin to the Prince, leaving you in the silence of the archives.

Once you can no longer hear their footsteps, you gather yourself, muster your wavering resolve, and make your way towards your mother’s lodgings.

**Author's Note:**

> more tags to be added as this progresses! this is my first ever reader insert, please forgive me as i get used to the medium ;w; goal is to get to post-canon fix-it because our boye deserved better.


End file.
